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The familiar sight of the room, with the lamp, so wise and motionless, enthroned in the middle, reassured him. It was balm to this man who had just seen what does not exist, who had just smiled at phantoms and touched them, who had just been mad. I rose the next morning, all broken up. I was restless. I had a severe headache. My eyes were bloodshot.
His closely trimmed, sandy moustache was streaked with grey, his eyes were a little bloodshot, he had the shrinking manner of one who suffers from habitual nervousness. Josephine, after her first start of surprise, watched him with coldly questioning eyes. "I hope you have dined, Henry," she said. "A waiter rang up from somewhere to say you would not be home."
Thus he stood, his gaze riveted upon the Kincaid until it disappeared beyond a projecting promontory of the coast. From the jungle at his back fierce bloodshot eyes glared from beneath shaggy overhanging brows upon him. Little monkeys in the tree-tops chattered and scolded, and from the distance of the inland forest came the scream of a leopard.
For the most part a man escapes with one of these penalties. If he have a racking headache, his general health does not usually suffer so much as though he had endured no such immediate vengeance from violated nature. Young Aby when he drank had no headaches; but his eye was bloodshot, his cheek bloated, and his hand shook.
But her eyes likewise were twinkling, though the bruised one was bloodshot. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Rossiter, to be introduced to you like this. I don't know what you will think of me. It's the first time I've been in a really bad row.... We were trying to get to the House of Commons, but the police interfered and gave us the full privileges of a man as regards their fists.
Both his eyes were bloodshot, and one was fixed in his head. He smelled of spirits, and carried a toothpick in his mouth. "How are you? I've just done dinner," says he; and he lights a cigar, sits down with his legs crossed, and winks at me. I tried at first to take the measure of him in a wheedling, confidential way; but it was no good.
"It sounds like Holm," said Thwaite, walking up to it, "and upon my soul it is Holm. What on earth are you doing here, my dear fellow?" "Is that you, Thwaite?" said the voice. "I wish you'd help me out. I want Logan to give me a bed for the night. I'm infernally ill." Lewis looked within and saw a pale face and bloodshot eyes which did not belie the words. "What is it?" said Thwaite.
This man Sancho is going to have a fair trial. What's more, he had a companion. What does he say of the other man, Manuel Crust?" "Sancho Mendez says he was alone. There was no other man." Percival looked hard into Manuel Crust's bloodshot eyes. An appalling thought had suddenly flashed into his mind. Many seconds passed before he dared to open his lips.
But the disorder in his clothes, his loose cravat, his shirt spotted with wine, his dishevelled hair, his look of fatigue, his marble complexion, his bloodshot eyes, announced that a night of debauch had preceded this morning; whilst his abrupt and heavy gesture, his hoarse voice, his look, sometimes brilliant, and sometimes stupid, proved that to the last fumes of the intoxication of the night before, were joined the first attacks of a new state of drunkenness.
The murderer made an uncertain sound with his dry lips, and his bloodshot eyes roamed around the circle from one staring face to another, until they returned to rest upon the watchful, amber-hued countenance beside him. "Speak!" said his master sternly. "I'll say nothing," was the dogged reply, "until I stands my trial. I demands a fair trial."
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